The Wingless Gallop
The fly in Me gallops in the steps of (a) Be(es)
In a snowy morning shouting "let me be''
The green borders of truth melting on April's knee
For heaven is within the reach of the poor wet coulds
Which relate their last liquid secrets aloud
O man , the attic of your marrow is nowhere
Out of the dome of your eager soul
Copyright © Youssef Elharrak | Year Posted 2015
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